Hells Angel on a Tricycle
by infie
Summary: Castiel runs out of minutes and is reduced to texting. Minor warning: Language


_A/N: written for the LJ Story_Lottery Challenge: prompt "A text message"_

_

* * *

_

_{yo u ther}_

Sam frowned at his flip phone. He hated flip phones. He also hated unsolicited texts. Not that he actually _paid_ for them or anything, but it was the principle of the thing. Now, who...?

_{Castiel hre}_ the phone helpfully displayed.

"Dude." Sam glanced at Dean out of the corner of his eye, half-afraid to look away in case his cell had mysteriously become possessed. They were rocketing down route 73 at about seventy miles an hour, and the last thing he wanted was to suddenly be fighting whatever idiotic, insane entity out there that would want to possess a _phone_. But, if there was one thing he'd learned, it was if there was a messed up idea out there, there would be at least one supernatural creepy-crawlie willing to give it a shot. "Do you have any idea why Castiel would be text messaging me?"

The look of astonishment and 'what the fuck?' on Dean's face pretty much matched exactly how Sam felt. The car swerved a little as Dean swung in his seat to face Sam head-on, apparently to check if he was fucking with him.

"Say again?" Dean's eyebrow looked like it was heading for his hairline, it was cocked so high.

"Castiel. Text messaging." He waggled his phone. "On this."

"I don't think Cas even knows how to go to a text mode, much less work out how to change letters," Dean declared. He returned his attention to the road, shaking his head in disbelief. Sam was belatedly glad they were on a nice clear straightaway, rather than in the middle of some complicated switchback.

The cell in Sam's hand vibrated and chirped again. Somehow it managed to sound irritated. Sam tentatively clicked to view the message, holding it carefully away from his face instead it suddenly decided to go all Transformers and try to eat his face or something.

"It's me," he read out loud. "Ran out of minutes. Only texts left."

Dean started to laugh. Real, genuine from the gut laughs. Sam blinked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard actual amusement from Dean. Bitter, laugh at hell sarcasm, sure. But this was something different. Something… nice, actually.

The cell buzzed.

"It's not funny," Sam dutifully reported. Naturally that just made Dean laugh harder. Sam grinned despite the whole 'mocking angels' thing.

"I think the Hell's Angel's been demoted to a tricycle," Dean said with a smug grin. "Tell him that!"

"I can't..." Sam turned to him, scandalised. "I can't say that to an _angel_, Dean!"

"Ha!" Dean retorted. "You think that's bad, you should try getting him laid!"

Sam stared at him blankly. "I shou..._What?_"

Dean gave him the eye-roll that said he was being completely lame. "Ask him about how he learned to text," he said, dropping the topic of Castiel's sex life, to Sam's everlasting gratitude.

"How... you .. learn... text?" Sam typed out laboriously. He hated texting on these little flip phones. They were built for tiny people with tiny little fingers and thumbs. The kind of people that if he actually ever saw one he'd probably be expected to shoot it, because humans just don't work that way. The miniature keys made him miss his blackberry with a painful intensity.

"Hey!" Dean was smirking again. "Maybe we could, I dunno, set up a sort of secret text circle. We could teach Bobby how to do it."

Sam shrugged. "Bobby's already pretending to be about eighteen different people online. He can probably already text faster than you can type."

Dean sulked.

The phone buzzed again. "Am getting help. Are you ready to be serious?" Sam lifted his eyebrows. "He does know you well."

Dean was frowning. "Ask him what help," he said.

"What... help." Sam pressed send and sucked on his now sore finger. The phone vibrated again almost immediately, conveying Castiel's impatience awfully well for an un-possessed inanimate object. Sam poked at it and read the message. "Ha!" he said, "Chuck's niece is helping him."

Dean's mouth worked strangely. "Are you telling me," he said, sounding strangled, "that a bad-ass angel of the Lord, who has single-handedly gotten the upper hand on two different archangels, needs help from a twelve-year old girl?" The look on his face when he turned back to Sam was pure glee. "Dude. He is _never_ living this down."

The phone buzzed angrily, like Castiel had heard him. "Not unlimited texts," Sam read. "Where are you?" He rubbed the side of his nose with his thumb, wavering.

"Just ask him what's up," Dean suggested, reading his hesitation. "He should be able to tell us that much before we agree to have him drop in."

"Fair enough." Sam relayed the question. The wait for the response took a lot longer this time, and Sam was just starting to get worried that Castiel had indeed run out of texts when his phone vibrated again. "We don't have time for games, Dean," he read out, endeavouring to get the censorious tone right. From the downturn to the corner of Dean's mouth, he succeeded. "This is important to our goal of destroying Lucifer. I think I found the Colt..." His voice trailed off as the import of the words sank in. Dean's head snapped around so he could stare at the phone intently. "Where are you?" Sam took a deep breath. "Pull over, Dean."

"Mile... marker...one...sixty... four.. route... seventy...three." He tapped as rapidly as he could, then pressed send. He looked at Dean as they coasted to a stop by the side of the road. The car was rocked by the wind of a passing semi; Sam couldn't help but find it a foreboding feeling. "You think he's really found it?" he asked quietly.

"Who knows?" Dean shrugged but his knuckles were white on the wheel. "There's no guarantee that even if he did find it it'll work on the Devil."

"That may be." Castiel's low growl sounded from the backseat, making them both jump. "But it is still the best chance we've got." He tossed the cell phone he'd been using into the front seat. "Now, before we go any further, itop this up./i"

.end


End file.
